


Every Star In The Sky

by orsumfenix



Category: The Lorien Legacies - All Media Types, The Lorien Legacies - Pittacus Lore
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, F/M, Fluff, set in that future john saw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4506594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orsumfenix/pseuds/orsumfenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just the two of them, the last of the Loric Resistance in a wrecked world - Sam supposes it would be romantic if it wasn't so sad.<br/>A month by month walkthrough of the last year of the lives of Sam Goode and Number Six.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Star In The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sticking to 2015 bc this was written before then and i can't be bothered changing it

_“Good always triumphs over evil.” That’s what they say, but that isn’t always true. The Loric lost, and now they’re the only ones left._

**January 2015**

“How long have we been walking for?” Sam complains. His legs have long since stopped aching and gone completely numb, and he just feels utterly exhausted and spent. “It feels like days!”

Six lets her hair out of her ponytail and redoes it, a scowl etched on her face. Her stormy grey eyes seem to be constantly clouded over and shifting, as if she’s constantly analysing everything. Thinking about it, she probably is. It’s her who comes up with all the plans and tactics.

“Stop complaining, Sam,” she chides. “It’s only been about seven hours.”

He feels his jaw drop.

“Seven _hours_!” he repeats, incredulous. “I don’t think I’ve ever walked this long before.”

Six frowns at him.

“Well, I _have_. And if we don’t keep moving then the authorities will catch up to us. You know that.” She faces forwards at the deserted road, a strange look on her face. “We’ve only got a few more miles to go. Not that hard.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Sam huffs, hunching his shoulders under the weight of the heavy rucksack. “You’re Loric. You have legacies and stuff, _and_ enhanced physiology. It’s a lot harder for us mere humans.”

Six rolls her eyes and readjusts her own rucksack.

“Come on, Sam,” she coaxes in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Just a few more miles, I _promise_ , then we can find a place to rest.”

He nods, simply because the word ‘rest’ is included in that sentence. God, he’s never been this tired. Even after training with the other Garde, he still felt like he had the energy to crawl into bed before passing out from exhaustion. Now, he just feels as though he could collapse on the spot, never mind the fact that he’s on a country road to nowhere.

He has no doubt that Six isn’t even tired. She could probably sprint those few miles and still have the energy to do several hours of training afterwards. She wouldn’t even break sweat.

Damn Loric and their superior complex.

“Where are we even going, anyway?” he asks, determined to keep his eyes on the road ahead and not let his eyelids droop. Six had woken him up that morning at about 3am, when he’d gotten to sleep at 1am that day, and _no way in hell_ is two hours enough sleep. He’d tried to explain this to her, but she’d insisted that they leave the scruffy motel, on the basis that she ‘has an idea’.

An idea she still hasn’t explained to him yet.

“Chicago,” Six informs crisply, her own eyes focused on the path in front. “Nine’s old penthouse.”

Sam slows down a little, confusion setting in.

“Why are we going there?” he asks, puzzled. “That place was destroyed years ago, when…” He trails off, sure she knows what he means. _When everything started to fall apart. When we lost three of us all in one go._

Six huffs in front of him as he rushes to catch up to her.

“I know that,” she sighs. “I’m just hoping that there’ll be something, _anything_ , in the wreckage that could help us win this war.”

Sam snorts at the word ‘war’. This stopped being a war years ago, and just became pest control, the Mogodorians eliminating the last of the Loric Resistance.

He hates to say it, but the Loric Resistance is pitifully small.

“There won’t be anything, Six,” he tells her. “The Mogs will have taken anything of use as soon as it was destroyed. All we’ll probably find is some grim reminders of the other Garde.”

He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. Almost instantly, Six’s face reverts into its usual scowl and she stiffens her shoulders, signalling that she’s angry with him. Whoops.

“Look Six, I’m sorry-” he begins, but she cuts him off with a sour look.

“Save it, Sam,” she says sharply, before taking a deep breath, closing her eyes momentarily and reopening them with a sad look on her face. “No, _I’m_ sorry. You’re just trying to be realistic. I just really feel as if I have to do this.”

“Fair enough,” he reasoned, after several minutes of contemplating her words. “Just promise you’ll be careful, that’s all.”

Six lets a small, fleeting smile slip onto her face, the first one he’s seen for ages. She’s really is beautiful, but it’s so much easier to see when she’s smiling.

“I promise.”

* * *

 

 True to Six’s word, it’s only a few more miles until they reach a smallish, scruffy motel with a sign that used to be flashing neon but now just stays unlit. It’s not dissimilar to all the others they’ve stayed in, with the exception of this one really nice one a couple months back, where the heating _actually_ worked.

The man at the front desk is an overweight, blading guy with a really bad goatee, who simply grunts at them from where he’s eating pizza and watching a replay of Setrakus Ra declaring Earth under his control. Sam remembers that day, and it makes him feel sick.

It’s a good job the guy doesn’t actually look properly at them, as just as they’re heading towards the room with the keys Sam catches a glimpse of an image of Six, Nine and John appear on the screen, being declared ‘terrorists’ and ‘threats towards the new great empire’. He hears Six’s sharp intake of breath when Setrakus momentarily declares that several members of the group have already been killed. There’s no doubt who he’s talking about.

They get into the room to find it’s one of those lovebird ones, one with a double bed and a red, heart-shaped couch. Sam exchanges looks with Six, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Six herself looks like she wants to smile, but keeps a straight face to keep up her tough exterior.

Six makes herself at home immediately, dumping her rucksack and going into the bathroom with a plastic bag from it, locking the door behind her. That leaves Sam to place his rucksack on the bed, mindful that it’s Six’s turn to sleep on the sofa (and that one is a god-awful sofa).

After about twenty minutes he gets worried, and wanders over to the bathroom door, knocking rather loudly.

“Six?” he asks, concerned for his friend’s well-being. “You okay in there?”

Silence, and then, “one second.”

He waits for a couple seconds, then the door swings open to reveal Six… with hardly any hair.

“Six,” he gasps, analysing the new length, a boyish length shorter than his. “What have you done to your hair?”

The Garde runs a hand through her hair slightly self-consciously, making it stick up in little spikes.

“I’ve cut it,” she states plainly, avoiding his gaze.

“I can see that,” he says incredulously, still trying to get over the shock of Six with _short hair_. “What I wanna know is _why_.”

Six sighs, walking out of the bathroom and plonking herself beside her rucksack on the love heart sofa. Sam follows her and takes a seat next to her, waiting silently for an explanation as she awkwardly fiddles with her hands.

Eventually Six sighs and shrugs nonchalantly.

“It was getting in the way,” is her simple explanation. And there’s Six, ever the practical girl. She cut her hair simply because it was getting in the way. Makes sense. Sounds like the type of thing Six would do.

Something tells him there’s more to it, though.

He says as much, and Six lets out a bitter laugh, going to mess with her hair before realising it’s not there anymore and dropping her hand uselessly.

“My picture is plastered everywhere,” she says in a quiet voice. “And on that picture I have long hair. This will make me harder to recognise.”

It seems to be yet another reasonable explanation, but if that was true, why does she have such a sad look on her face?

“What’s the real reason, Six?” comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. She shoots him a look but he continues anyway. “I know there’s something other than that. I can always tell when you’re lying.”

Six gives him a sad smile as she leans back on the sofa, blowing out through her nose.

“When I was a little girl,” she begins, voice far away and distant. “I had the longest hair in all the places me and Katarina stayed. She’d so it up in bunches, stick ribbons in it, make it look pretty in any way possible.” Six closes her eyes and smiles slightly, as if imagining it. “Those days were good. We’ve lost so much we’ve forgotten what it’s like to have everything.

“Anyway, I would have this long, dark hair as a child, and all the other girls would envy me for having it. I was so proud of my hair, even when we were moving and I hadn’t washed it in days and it got all ratty.

“But those were the days when I was just a little girl, naïve about the world and so sure life was going to be one big fairytale. I’m not that little girl anymore – I’m a soldier now. And it doesn’t feel right to have the same hair and looks as I did back then. Feels as if I’m trying to pretend I’m still that same little girl I was all those years ago.”

It makes Sam sad, listening to Six talking about this, about how she used to be innocent and happy. Then came Katarina’s death, closely followed by the war, and eradicated any trace of that… _pureness_ she was left with.

He lost his own innocence way after Six, but still it was a long time ago.

* * *

 

They spend a single night there before deciding to leave.

“We have to keep moving,” Six says. “Before they find us.” Then she shoves him into the bathroom, insisting that he ‘sort out his look’.

He has no idea what she means until he takes a look in the mirror.

His hair (that’s _supposed_ to be blonde) hasn’t been washed in ages, and it’s ratty and virtually grey with discolour. His skin is grimy with dirt (he’s surprised he hasn't noticed before.) His eyes seem sunken and hollow in their sockets. There’s a vivid bruise on his neck from where he’d been in a fist fight with that Mogodorian… Kelly?

Oh well, she’s dead now. Six shot her in the head.

He gets to work, splashing water on his face and running his hair under a tap. When he looks back it’s already a drastic improvement, his hair slightly blonder and his skin less corpse-looking. Sam smiles a little bit, cringing at how false it looks. He hasn’t smiled truly, surrounded by friends, for years now.

Six knocks on the door.

“You decent in there?”

He nods, before remembering that she can’t see him and shouting yes.

Six comes in, and it still takes him a moment to recognise her with her short hair. She studies him with a critical eye, taking in slightly better appearance and nodding approvingly.

“You’ll do. Now come on,” she says, waving him along and picking up her rucksack on the way out. Sam does the same, following her out of the room and onto the road. They’re going to start walking again, he can tell, mentally preparing himself for the long walk ahead.

But they don’t start walking. At the front of the motel is a beat-up jeep, where an oldish guy sits in the front, seemingly waiting for them.

Six climbs in the back without hesitation, which doesn’t really seem like her, but Sam is more wary. He checks up and down the road for any sign of Mogodorian vans or trucks, scans the car for anything that seems… _off_ and analyses the guy himself, who is simply staring blankly at him.

“Sam,” Six says from inside the jeep, getting his attention. She almost-smiles encouragingly, beckoning for him to climb in. “It’s okay, we can trust this guy.”

Sam isn’t certain, but if Six gets into trouble alone then she might need someone to protect her. Not that Six has ever needed protecting, but it’s always good to have backup.

Besides, if Six trusts this guy, then he probably should, too. Six is a good judge of character.

Sam uncertainly gets into the car beside Six, sitting his rucksack on his knees the way the Garde has done. She almost-smiles slightly at him, their knees touching.

“Where to, ma’am?” the driver in the front asks. Six leans forward.

“Chicago, please. The old John Hancock Centre.”

The driver nods.

“Of course.”

They begin to move and Six leans back in the seat, looking out at the road as they move.

“So,” he begins after a while, breaking the silence. He gestures towards the front of the car. “How’d you know this guy?”

The guy in front glances at him in the rear-view mirror, but soon focuses his eyes back on the road.

Six breathes out slowly, turning to face him.

“I met him when we were India, you remember?”

Sam nods. Of _course_ he remembers. All of Pakistan was burning, and the two of them were lucky to get out alive, running for two miles before being lucky enough to find an abandoned army car with the keys still in and with enough petrol to get to India (luckily, they were near the borderline between the two countries, even if they had to travel all the way through the Himalayas).

Both of them had felt immense guilt. They’d been staying in Pakistan for several months at the time, and neither of them had any doubt that the Mogs had been trying to get _them_.

The Mogs failed, though, and the Loric resistance lives on.

Six shoots him another almost-smile.

“Well, I met him years ago, when I was with Crayton, Marina and…” She seems to get the word stuck in her throat. “Ella,” she finally gets out. “He was one of the soldiers that helped us. Commander Sharma. He told me to contact him if we needed help, and he told me when the first plane would be. I called him when we arrived in America and asked him if he could get over and help us get close to the city.”

Sam nods. It makes sense.

“So… you called him all this way, we came so far, because you want to sift through some wreckage for something that probably isn’t even there?”

Six looks guilty.

“…Not exactly.”

He is silent, waiting for her to elaborate, but she stays silent, too. Eventually he rolls his eyes, realising she’s lost in her thoughts.

“Six?” he prompts. “Do you have another reason, or…?”

“Do you remember Number Eight?” she says abruptly, cutting him off. Sam blinks, struggling to comprehend why she’s brought this up.

It’s been two years, after all.

“Vaguely,” he says slowly, mind racing. All he really remembers of the guy is that he laughed a lot, was in love with Marina and was the first of them to die. “Why?”

Another almost-smile.

“He grew up in India,” Six begins to explain. “And he knew a lot about Hindu culture. I mean, I still don’t know if he actually believed in all of their gods and stuff, but he did talk about it a lot to me. He said that sometimes in the Himalayas he would encounter people on Pilgrimage.”

“Pilgrimage?” That sounds familiar. “Is that the thing where people go on journeys to holy places?”

Six nods.

“Yeah. And, I guess, to Loric, the John Hancock Centre is the last place all of us were together. It’s like a holy place.”

“So... you’re on Pilgrimage?”

Six nods again.

“We never really got closure, or at least I didn’t. That’s what I’m trying to do now.”

Sam nods in understanding. He’s kind of glad they’re doing it, now. Perhaps this can provide closure to him.

They sit in silence for the rest of the ride, a total of twelve hours. He’s _really_ glad they aren’t walking, because it would have taken even longer.

Eventually, ‘Commander Sharma’ drops them off a mile from the city, telling them to get out and be careful.

“This is as far as I can go without a license or a search,” he explains, eyes flickering nervously over the city gates in the distance. “You’re less likely to get caught walking now.”

“Thank you,” Six says as she climbs out, sounding genuinely touched. “Your Lord Vishnu would be proud.”

Sharma nods.

Sam awkwardly clambers out after Six, trying to manoeuvre his rucksack in front of him in the graceful way Six did. It doesn’t work very well, and the Garde jus rolls her eyes and takes his rucksack while he tries to get out.

“Be careful,” Sharma says again once they’re both out the jeep and ready to start walking. “Those Mogodorians, they don’t grant any mercy towards prisoners.”

And doesn’t he know it.

A shiver runs down Sam’s spine involuntarily, recalling the events before Adamus came. The nights of fear and hopeless fantasies about Six coming to save him.

The girl herself seems to notice his change in mood, shooting him a comforting look and taking his arm.

“We’d better get moving now,” she says. “Thanks again. For everything. And get back to India safely.”

Sharma drives off, unsettling the dust around them and soon becoming merely a speck on the horizon.

Sam watches him go. That’s it now. No backup, just the two of them. If something goes wrong, Commander Sharma won’t be there to pick them and drive them far away. They’re on their own now.

“Come on, Sam,” Six shouts, startling him out of his reverie. He looks over to see her further down the road, beckoning for him to follow her. “Let’s get going.”

The Goode slightly runs to catch up to her, internally wincing when he feels himself begin to sweat. The sun is beating down in the sky, almost as if it has a personal vendetta against them. No doubt it will be a hot day today.

“You should hold my hand,” Six says, holding said limb out to him. He stares at it for a few moments, uncomprehending, until she rolls her eyes and grabs his own hand, turning both of them invisible.

Oh. _Now_ he understands. You’re meant to have a license to enter a city, and cars have to pass a search about half a mile away, the reason Sharma didn’t get any closer. Their only hope to get inside is to turn invisible, what they’ve mainly been doing to sneak aboard planes and buses and the like.

The two of them walk in companionable silence, occasionally stopping to take a gulp of water from their canteens. Hopefully, they won’t be walking as long as the other day, seven hours. (Seven _hours_ , really.)

No, they won’t be. The city gates are close, now, he can see them. They stand tall and proud, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the hunched figures and wrecked buildings. The Mogs decided to start again, to build anew in this city of rubble, but they gave up part way through. All they ever got round to completing was the gates and the tall, barbed wire fenced around the perimeter.

The latter of which causes a problem for them. A _big_ problem.

Of course, Six can easily climb over without being spotted, having stealth, speed and invisibility. But Sam can’t hold her hand climbing up, and they have no way to transfer her power to him temporarily or not.

“What do you wanna do?” he whispers to his companion, looking up at the approaching gates. They’re flanked by about a dozen Mogodorian guards, all watching out for any disturbances. Sam feels his heart beat just that little bit quicker when he can almost swear one is looking right at him, but the soldier’s gaze soon drifts away and he can breathe normally again.

“I’ll try and think of a plan,” Six whispers back. Well, there’s something new. ‘Cos Six never does the thinking. (Note the sarcasm.)

He waits in silence a few minutes, sure that his heart is beating loud enough for the Mogs to hear it. They’ve stopped moving, now, him too scared to get any closer until they know what they’re doing.

“Alright, I have an idea,” Six finally replies, still keeping her voice low. “But it’s gonna take your acting skills.”

* * *

 

Sam is hiding behind an old army tank, that they could not be luckier to have there. He’s pressed up against the back, the cold metal digging into his back. He holds his breath as he hears a soldier approach on the other side, not daring to make a sound. It’s eerily similar to the time when he had to hide silently in a cupboard while John faced Setrakus Ra alone. God, that was one of the worst days of his life. That was the day Number Four died.

He’s actually pretty surprised about who’s left. Well, Six isn’t really a shock, seeing as she was always the strongest out of all of them (except for perhaps Nine, but that guy was reckless and rather stupid, actually), but it is a rather nice surprise that he’s one of the two to last. He was always the _weakest_ , the most likely to die, and yet he’s still here.

 _He’s still here._ That thought alone is enough to send a rush of happiness running through him.

There’s an exclamation of surprise from the other side of the tank, followed by a muffled yell.

_Six._

He risks a peek round the side, and sees the soldiers randomly being knocked out and falling on the floor with big welts on their heads. One of them reaches for a radio that is soon knocked out of his hands by an invisible force. Then he crumples to the ground, distress clearly visible on his face.

Once all the guards are down, Six makes herself visible, beckoning him over and passing him the radio she snagged from the soldier on the ground.

“I must warn you,” he says, recalling old plays at Paradise. “I’m terrible at acting.”

Six rolls her eyes.

“You can’t be that bad,” she tells him. “Now make the call.”

Sam sighs, but does as she said.

 _“Hello?”_ says a voice on the other end of the line. Sam closes his eyes and raises the radio to his mouth.

“This is the guard patrol outside of the gates,” he says in his best deep voice, trying not to wince at how fake it sounds. “We have a breach. Someone’s tried to break in, and they’re running down the road and away. We suspect that they may try again. Maybe we should send someone to pursue them.”

Silence on the other end.

 _“Agreed,”_ the mystery person says, and Sam almost breathes a sigh of relief. _“We’re sending a team now. Keep guarding.”_

The line goes dead.

Now their attention won’t be on the two of them, and they think that they’ve failed to get inside.

“Come on,” Six says, walking over and picking up her rucksack from where it was left behind the tank. “Let’s go. And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a _really_ bad actor.”

Sam smiles and follows her as they open the gate just enough to slip through, close them again, and begin to walk.

The streets of Chicago are deserted and silent. It’s almost scary to walk through them, especially when he knows what they used to be like.

Six is silent beside him. When he looks over he can almost swear there are tears in her eyes, but when he does a double take she’s fine.

He hears the wailing of a baby at one point, crying that is quickly silenced. There is virtually no noise in this once loud place, the exceptions being the wind banging against shutters and cats yowling.

He tries not to pay attention to the all the litter on floor, clearly dropped by people running for their lives.

Sam remembers seeing it on the news about a year back, when it was Six, him and Nine. The Mogs released a whole army of Pikens and Krauls on the city of Chicago, an army that rampaged the streets and killed thousands. He’d been numb as he watched it on the TV in a shop, everyone inside just stopping and watching as people were killed live.

That was the first time he prayed, and it certainly wasn’t the last.

Any survivors of that particular instance weren’t allowed to leave – they just had to stay cooped up inside the fence, hoping that, one day, someone would come to save them.

But no one ever came.

“It’s sick,” he hears Six whisper from beside him. He follows her gaze to see the remains of some dead bodies, all piled up against a wall. He wants to hurl at the sight of the decomposing flesh. Some Mogs piled up the bodies and burned them, but it looks like this heap was never set fire to.

It’s disgusting, in more ways than one.

But the worst part is, Chicago had it good compared to some places. Pakistan burned, with only about twenty survivors. All of Ireland was gassed; no one lived through that. In Germany Mogs broke into people’s homes and shot them. New Mexico was quarantined for being in possession of Loric and Mogodorian technology, and that was two years ago, when all this began. At least Chicago gets food imported – New Mexico hasn’t been heard from since, and it’s been assumed that everyone died when they ran out of food and water.

It is sick. _Very_ sick.

There were riots, at first. In Britain the riots were the biggest, which was the reason the Irish were all executed, despite only Northern Ireland being a part of the UK. In Scotland there was resistance, them working together with England to create new guns and weapons. But then a series of bombs were dropped in the cities, and pretty soon they stopped rebelling.

Anyone who’s tried to put up a fight has been made an example out of. Some part of Sam knows it’s pointless to try and fight back, but him and Six have lasted two years, now, and maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for them yet.

Even if they might as well have had an apocalypse.

“I know,” is all he can manage to say. He shoots Six a sad look, which she returns. Then he scans the area. “How many people do you reckon have died because of us? Because _we_ failed?”

Six doesn’t even try to look optimistic.

“Millions.” 

* * *

 

The John Hancock Centre once stood proud amongst the bustling streets of Chicago. People would crowd and marvel at it, snap pictures, send postcards with the image plastered on the front. Sam had been thrilled to learn they were staying there all those years ago. _(And now he most definitely is **not** thrilled to be going back.) _

The John Hancock Centre doesn’t stand proud anymore. People don’t crowd and marvel at it, don’t snap pictures, don’t send postcards with the image plastered on the front. _(People don’t send postcards at all, now.)_ The John Hancock Centre a husk of a building, the remainder a shell of what once was.

It once was something great.

_(But now it’s something terrible.)_

Sam looks up at the old thing, now mainly a heap of rubble piled on top of about three intact floors. _(There used to be so many more than that.)_ He gets a flash of years ago, with him (back) and John (gone) and Six (stony) and Five (traitor) and his dad (dead). That seems like a different life, now, like all that happened before the Mogs invaded happened to someone else entirely.

_(He **feels** like someone else.)_

“It’s been so long,” Six says, echoing his thoughts. She lets out a bitter laugh. “I never saw it like this, not in the flesh. Didn’t think I ever would. And here I am.”

_(And here he is.)_

“I’m back,” Six continues.

_(He’s back.)_

She looks up at the John Hancock Centre.

_(It’s seems so small, now, compared to how it was.)_

“God, how could I have though this was a good idea?”

_(This really wasn’t a good idea.)_

“All it’s done is bring back memories.”

_(Memories are stirring, flashing into mind, scenes from the past flashing into his mind, dancing around, teasing him, trying to get him to realise just how bad everything is compared to what it used to be. They used to be hopeful, confident… cocky. So sure they were going to win.) (It just never occurred to them that they might not.)_

Images are dancing through his head.

Ella talking. Nine boasting. Eight laughing. Marina smiling. Six scowling. Five frowning. John grinning. Sarah shooting. Malcolm lecturing. Adam explaining.

Now most of that is gone gone gone, and there’s no way he’s ever getting it back.

Six moves closer to building, towards the doors that probably haven’t been opened since the top floors were destroyed. He follows like a lost puppy, mainly too caught up in the sudden onslaught of memories to pay much attention.

“I think-” Six begins.

Then the bomb goes off. 

* * *

 

His senses are clouded as he is thrown backwards from the building. He’s vaguely aware of the sound of screams, but that’s hazy, blocked out. 

* * *

 

He can’t tell if he’s flying or falling.

Perhaps both.

Perhaps neither.

Perhaps somewhere in between the two. 

* * *

 

The sound goes out.

All he can here is the sound of thrumming in his ears, his own pulse.

* * *

 

_Thump. Thump._

_Thump. Thump._

_Thump. Thump._

* * *

 

He’s still flying. No, falling. No, flying. No…

* * *

 

Then suddenly, he’s smashing into the side of a building, and he can almost feel every bone in his body break and it feels like a thousand knifes are all sticking into him, piercing his flesh and it hurts, oh god it hurts… 

* * *

 

“Male, nineteen. Multiple fractures, ruptured spleen, burst eardrum…”

* * *

 

“Female, twenty. Broken collarbone, possible skull fracture, glass embedded in arm…”

* * *

 

“He needs immediate medical attention…”

* * *

 

“We have to operate on her…”

* * *

 

“Should make a full recovery…”

* * *

 

“Will probably be alright…”

* * *

 

_Beep._

* * *

 

“Sam?”

* * *

 

_Beep._

* * *

 

“Sam, it’s Six.”

* * *

 

_Beep._

* * *

 

“Sam? I had a dream last night. You were in it. Everyone was it in it, and everyone was okay…”

* * *

 

_Beep._

* * *

 

_Beep._

* * *

 

_Beep._

* * *

Sunlight streams through the blinds and shines directly onto his eyelids, rousing him and making him grunt. It’s so bright. Why is it so bright? And why is he waking up if he never went to sleep…?

That explosion, the one coming from the John Hancock Centre. Was that a bomb?

It was, wasn’t it? It was a bomb.

If it was, then he’s lucky to be alive.

“Sam?” an echoey voice says above him, gradually coming clearer and into focus like an old-fashioned TV. “Sam, are you okay? Sam?”

“Six?” someone slurs, and he recognises that voice as his own.

“Yeah, Sam,” a hand grabs his arm. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Wha-” he begins, making the mistake of opening his eyes. He winces at the sudden brightness assaulting him vision, slamming them shut almost straight away.

“Don’t force yourself,” Six tells him firmly, and he vaguely hears the sound of her moving away and a chair scraping forwards, so presumable she’s now sitting on a chair beside him. “A bomb went off in the John Hancock Centre. Both of us were really hurt, but me – I’m Loric. It was so much easier for my body to repair itself.”

That makes sense.

“How long has it been?” he asks, slowly creeping his eyes open. It’s still bright, but not insufferable. He notices Six sitting beside him, watching him with… is that… _concern_ in her eyes?

“A week,” she informs, voice slightly gravelly. “And we need to get out of here, as soon as possible.”

Sam nods incredulously, shock running through his system. Only a week? Surely the injuries he must have taken much longer than that to heal?

But, when he gives himself a once-over, he sees that he’s in exactly the same state that he was before the bomb went off. Six he can understand, but him? He’s only human.

Someone’s done something to make him better quicker.

It seems Six agrees, but she doesn’t say anything.

See, they’re lucky they haven’t been identified yet. When the Mogs first took over and casualties were being rushed in, the hospitals stopped caring about knowing who were treating, and just about fixing people up before the next patient comes in. The Mogs haven’t caught them yet for this very reason, but no doubt the alien race has a special look-out for them. They have to get away, and _fast_.

Six looks him up and down, taking in his appearance.

“You good to go now?”

* * *

 For some reason, their rucksacks are sitting in the patient lounge, untouched and in exactly the same condition in which they left them. Sam looks at Six, expecting an explanation, but when he catches a glimpse of her face he sees the confusion written clearly.

“They weren’t there when I woke up,” she says slowly, looking about and studying everyone, as if expecting the Mogs to jump and attack them. “I assumed they were destroyed in the explosion, but if they’re here…” Six trails off. She doesn’t need to repeat her sentence.

If they’re here, that might just be very bad news.

It’s at that moment Six stops scanning the room with a scowl etched on her face, eyes narrowing. Sam follows her line of sight, going cold as he realises he can see two people in black trench coats watching them, a newspaper lying disregarded in one of their laps.

He doesn’t dare make eye contact.

This whole thing screams ‘conspiracy’. The bomb just _happening_ to go off in their exact position, both of them making a recovery in about a week, their rucksacks amazingly unscathed and just sitting there waiting for them, these guys watching the two… They have to get out of here. _Now._

Some sort of unspoken message passes between the companions, both of them walking quickly towards the hospital doors. On the way past the backpacks, Six snags them both up, handing him his and swinging her own onto her shoulders.

“Listen,” she mutters, moving quicker so that he has to jog to catch up. “We were never here. As far as the hospital is concerned we’ve been discharged by someone, and I’ve made sure that our records have been wiped. Now we just have to get as far away as possible and I _don’t_ want to cause a scene.” She glances at the guys in dark coats. “I don’t like the look of those guys.”

Sam holds his bag awkwardly in front of him, not daring to clutch it in the close way Six is.

“Isn’t it a bit risky to pick the rucksacks up?” he asks her, concerned that it’s all one big trap. “They could be bugged, or have a bomb in them, or…”

Six shoots him a look.

“They’re _fine_ , Sam,” she tells him sharply, still glaring at the creepy guys in the corner. “Trust me on this one.”

Sam doesn’t really want to, but this is _Six_ , and he’s always been able to trust her. She’s never once let him down, and he doesn’t see why now should be an exception.

Finding a method of transport isn’t really a problem. Once they’re out of sight, Six turns the two of them invisible and they sneak on board a train heading to New York, the only one actually pulled in at the nearest station in Chicago. Then it’s a simple case of staying in the baggage car until the journey’s over.

They stand beside each other in silence, fully visible to each other. Sam’s ditched his rucksack on the floor, still slightly skittish around it.

“The rucksack’s fine, you know,” Six assures him, staring at said bag on the floor. “It’s one of my legacies. Sensing danger. The rucksacks are both fine.”

All he can seem to say is, “I didn’t know you had that legacy.” Then, “why didn’t you sense that bomb?”

“I did,” Six says quietly, going to sit down on an empty luggage trolley. “But we were at the _John Hancock_ Centre – I ignored it.”

_Well done, Six._

Sam can’t quite bring himself to blame her, though. The only other members of her species are all either dead or traitors, and the last place that all of them were together was right there, right where they were.

She probably just assumed that she was feeling bad because of the memories. No doubt she’s mentally chiding herself for letting her guard down.

“So,” Sam begins, trying to change the subject. “How did the Mogs know that we were coming?”

Six frowns and shakes her head.

“I don’t know. Maybe they put that bomb in there years ago. Maybe Five had a dream and told them. I wouldn’t say it really matters, to be honest. The past is the past.”

Yes. The past _is_ the past. But the past keeps creeping up on you and coming back to bite you.

The two of them failed, and now the entire world has suffered because of it. 

* * *

 

_The sword is pointing right at Marina. She could easily turn and run, or call someone over for help, but all she can think about was a different sword, one that punctured not only the heart of the one she loved, but also her own heart._

_Sam stops from where he’s been looking out for any more incoming troops. He can see the huge Mogodorian looming in front of her, the sword tight in his grip._

_“Marina!” he shouts, looking around in desperation. He’s the closest to her, everyone else either being miles away or caught up in their own battles._

_He runs towards her. To hell with looking for more soldiers – one of them was in trouble, and he’ll be damned if he’s just going to stand there without helping._

_Marina looks at him, something akin to despair in her eyes. He’s almost there now. But why isn’t she doing anything? She has those icy powers, right? Why doesn’t she just use them?_

_She nods at him as he runs over. Sam sigs in relief, sure that she’s going to move._

_She does move. But not backwards._

_Marina takes a step forwards, onto the sword. It goes right into her chest, sticking out through the other side. It’s bleeding massively, red already coating her torso._

_Sam can’t help it – he screams._

_Marina slumps on the blade. He can hear the shouting of the other Garde as the latest scar burns itself into their ankles._

_And all he can do is shout and scream and cry and they’ve lost another one and…_

He jerks awake the sound of screaming still in his ears, Marina’s limp body imprinted on his eyelids. The image has been haunting him ever since that fateful day all those years ago, and he’s always regretted that he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Six is above him, holding his arms down (he must have been moving a lot), face grim. She lets go when she sees he’s awake, face not changing.

“Who?” she asks, leaning back onto her heels. Sam takes a few deep breaths, sitting up, trying desperately in vain to calm down. Six doesn’t have to ask anything else. That single word is enough for him to understand. He was present when most of their little group died, and it is not uncommon for him to have nightmares about it.

(According to Six, the Loric have dreams with proper meaning, that tells them things about what went on/is going on/happened in life. All his dreams are either memories or weird ones of him flying, but that last one’s not important.)

“Marina.”

And that’s Sam’s single breathless answer.

Marina was never the same after Eight died. She was cold and harsh, like her legacy, ruthless when slaughtering Mogodorians. There was one incident when she had a nightmare and Sam woke up to find the entire motel they were staying in covered in the thick ice. He’s still surprised to this day that they didn’t freeze to death.

Needless to say, they had to leave that _city_ within the hour, the Mogs hot on their tail.

Six nods in understanding, and while she _looks_ expressionless, Sam knows her well enough to see the sympathy in her eyes. Marina had been her best friend, and he knows that that loss, so soon after Eight, had deeply hurt her.

Sam props himself up on his elbows, breathing out deeply. It’s still hard to believe that, after everything, they’re the only two left, and have been since October last year.

Well, there’s still Ella and Five, but those two don’t really count.

Six stands up and glances at the door nervously. No doubt he was making a racket. He has a nasty habit of doing that.

This motel is a little nicer than the others they’ve been to before, with an actual _working_ shower with _hot water_ (seriously, he’s never felt so blessed). The woman at the front desk was surprisingly helpful, giving them a once-over and deciding that they’ve been through a terribly rough time and deserve their best room, which includes a mini fridge, stocked with cool, refreshing water and a window that opens more than a crack.

It’s heaven.

They both went to sleep immediately after arriving inside, Sam letting Six take the bed and he himself deciding to sleep on the floor. Neither of them has suggested where to go next, and Sam doesn’t have any idea where they should. It’s always been Six who’s decided.

So he decides to ask her.

“Any idea where we should head?”

Six shakes her head absent mindedly, which is really unhelpful, but he can’t blame her.

“I was thinking maybe you could pick,” she suggests, chewing her bottom lip, eyes clouded over and thoughtful. “Wherever I want us to go usually has a bad time just as we arrive.”

And isn’t that true. France had a horde of Mogodorians chasing them through the streets, killing any random passer-by that they saw. Pakistan burned in a Mog attempt to murder the two of them. Part of Chicago blew up when they arrived at the John Hancock Centre… not to mention all the other places the Mogs attacked simply because they were there. Maybe Six is really predictable and wherever she wants them to go can be tracked really easily. Maybe it is time for him to step up.

“How about Australia?” he suggests without really thinking about it. Six raises an eyebrow in his direction, as if asking for him to elaborate. “I mean, we’ve never been there before, and as far as I can tell the Mogs don’t have a base there…” Just as he’s warming up to the idea, Six shakes her head.

“There’s _is_ Mog base in Australia because that’s their head of resources. The place is practically crawling with them. They just don’t like to let it public to the other countries.”

“And how _exactly_ do you know this?” Sam asks as he stands up. Six rolls her eyes, moving to stand next to him.

“Loric learn through dreams, remember? As soon as they turned it into their head of resources I knew.”

Does Six know everything? Because it seems like she does.

“Okay, so…” Sam tries to think. What country seems relatively unscathed? “How about Italy? I’ve always wanted to go to Rome.”

Six shoots him a look.

“You want to go _sightseeing_?” she asks incredulously. Sam shrugs. It seems like quite a good idea to him. He never really got to stop and admire any of the views whilst on the run, and he doesn’t see why they shouldn’t be able to see things before the Mogs decide that they don’t want them around anymore.

“Why not? Make the most of…” He trails off at the look Six is giving him. “Or not?”

Six sighs and picks up her rucksack, looking weary and exhausted. She runs a hand through her dark hair, still ridiculously short and stubbly. Personally, Sam thinks that she looks better with longer hair, but Six has never really cared about looks. She’s all about practicality.

“We’d better be off, then.”

Sam frowns, confused. He though Six said _he_ could pick this time, and she obviously finds his idea of going sightseeing stupid. She finds a lot of his ideas stupid. He doesn’t blame her. Her ideas are great, but even _he_ finds his ideas stupid.

“Where are we going?”

Six smiles, and it’s one of the most beautiful sights he’s seen since the Mogs took over.

“Rome.”

 Sam feels his jaw drop open. Six is kidding, surely… right? But Six doesn’t kid, and if the expression on her face is anything to go by, then she’s being deadly serious. They’re going to _Rome_ … Rome! He instantly feels a wave of excitement run through him at his internal declaration. He’s always found the Roman civilisation fascinating, even more so when he discovered that the Loric had a hand in it.

He remembers that, long ago, before they started losing, the Loric and their allies sat down together and compiled a list of all the places on Earth to go to before returning to Lorien. (They’d been so sure of themselves then, determined that, just because they were the good guys, they’d win.) Rome had been on that list, as well as Athens, the Taj Mahal, Buckingham palace… Basically, they’d all thought of the most famous places in the world and wrote them all down on a scrap piece of paper, Nine pinning it to the wall of the penthouse afterwards.

Sometimes they’ve been _so close_ to where they wanted to go, but could never stop and snap pictures. They’ve never really had the time, being world wanted fugitives.

And now Six is letting him.

He can’t help but grin, running over and enveloping Six in a big hug. Sam can feel her tense under him, but he doesn’t register it much as he rushes over to grab his bag and start stuffing some of his clothes lying randomly strewn about inside without much care. It’s when he gets to a photo of all of them at the penthouse (Five’s figure cut out with precision) that he takes extra care, being careful to crumple it as little as possible.

“Sam,” Six says, now blank-faced. He can tell that she’s happy by her eyes though, sparkling under the glare of the dodgy lightbulb hovering above them on the  ceiling. “Slow down. We have to get to the airport first.”

Before he can respond, the lightbulb fizzles out in all its crappiness, and the two can’t help but burst out into hysterical laughter (well, Six less hysterical, but only slightly). 

* * *

 

It takes more walking and sneaking into trains and onto buses, but after about a week the two reach the closest airport. It would have been sooner, if this was Before, but this is After, and many airports have been shut down due to the Mogs wanting to keep a close eye on any and all citizens of Earth. And public transport has been minimized massively, too.

The airport itself is rather open-plan, and surprisingly busy. Sam catches snippets of conversations in various other languages as he and Six walk through the thronging mass of people there, all bustling to get somewhere in a hurry. The two have decided to remain visible, for now – it’s impossible for anyone to recognise them in a crowd as big as this, and it’s too late to suddenly disappear now.

“It’s kind of disturbing,” Six mutters to him in a low voice as they walk side by side towards the doors for their flight. “That _so many_ people are desperate to get away from here.”

Sam makes a slight noise of agreement in his throat as they approach the door for Rome. Six has done her research before coming here, and discovered that only twenty other people are on their flight, and this is one of the many airports to not bother checking identification for getting away. If you arrive on time, they fly you out of one country and into another, probably one less affected by the Mogs.

(Not everyone reaches an airport. And sometimes the flights to a place are cancelled, leaving everyone in that certain country stranded and unable to escape.)

They could probably get on with little problems, but Six leads him to empty room and turns them invisible, anyway, just to be one the safe side.

“Our flight arrives there tomorrow,” she murmurs to him as they settle down on the seats, sure that they’re the last ones on board and no one will sit on them. “The Mogs don’t know that we’re on here, but I’d suggest sleeping in shifts, just in case. I don’t want to be caught out in the air.”

Sam nods, before remembering that they’re still invisible and voices his agreement with a simple ‘okay’.

After checking that no one is watching, Six makes them able to be seen again and insists that he settle down for a few hours, catch up on his sleep, and that she’ll wake him in a few hours when she gets tired. 

* * *

 

Six doesn’t wake him up. 

* * *

 

“You said you’d get some sleep!” he accuses, scowling at the Garde, who glares back with equal ferocity. His loud tone attracts the attention of some of the other passengers, before they assume that it’s probably just a lover’s spat and going back to their newspapers.

“You seemed peaceful,” she snaps, crossing her arms and stormy grey eyes shifting. “I didn’t want to disturb you. Besides, you’re awake _now_.”

Sam rolls his eyes. Typical Six, thinking that she’s unbreakable and everyone else is _so_ much more fragile than her.

“We’ll be there in five minutes,” he hisses, ignoring her as her eyes narrow in what is clearly annoyance. “There’s not much point in you trying to get to sleep _now_ , is there?”

Six frowns even more, if that’s possible, but says no more as she reaches up and grabs their rucksacks from above them on the rail. Then she refuses to meet his eyes as the air hostess (just one, it’s hard for anyone to get employed anywhere these days) does a little ‘welcome to Rome’ speech before insisting that they all leave the plane safely and call for assistance should they need it.

Then they are allowed to disembark.

As soon as he steps out, a wave of heat slams full force into Sam’s body. He has to squint when the sun comes blazing full force on him, making him desperately want sunglasses for first time in a while. Six, on the other hand, seems perfectly unaffected, still scowling like crazy and looking as though she’d rather be anywhere than here.

She might not like it, but Sam’s actually _happy_ to feel the sun on his face. It almost feels as though he’s on one of those holidays with his mum and dad, before the Mogs took Malcolm and before John arrived in Paradise and before the school got destroyed. It’s like he’s still a kid, naïve and innocent to the world and the harsh realities that come with it.

Then he looks around and sees the haunted, defeated looks on people’s faces, and life comes back to him.

He’s tired. He’s sick and tired of the world, of being weary and exhausted and having to look over his shoulder whilst trying to imagine that John and Ella and Marina and Nine and Adam and Eight and Sarah and _his dad_ are still alive and whole (because Ella might as well be gone, she might as well be dead).

Six is tired, too, he can tell.

But still, the two of them trek onwards towards a better future.  


End file.
